So Unprofessional
by Sheryl Nantus
Summary: A quickie. In every way possible.


It's as unprofessional as hell and he doesn't care.

He can't keep his hands off of her, not since he found her again. Six months of pent-up lust and frustration and need, leading up to their frantic coupling in the Zephyr's lab before trying to travel home into the past. She needed it, he needed it – a renewal of their love for each other and their determination to stay together, against all odds.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.

Now, in the Lighthouse, even after the wedding, he couldn't stop. He would ambush her in the hallway, drag her into a supply closet for a quickie.

She'd gasp as he pulled at her shirt, yanking it up as he devoured her mouth, swallowing up the moans and whimpers before they escaped. One hand slipped inside her pants, expertly unbuttoning it and pushing down her white cotton underwear, horribly practical and yet incredibly sensual because she was wearing it. He pulled away to nip at her neck, work his way around to her earlobe where he'd tug it between his teeth as she shivered against him, mumbling indecipherable words.

He found her wet and ready for him, as she always was these days – his fingers unerringly finding the exact spot in her tender folds to make her quiver and shake, press herself up against him with a needy noise that almost had him coming in his jeans.

Almost.

His other hand tangled in her long hair, pulling the elastic free as he cupped the back of her neck, giving him as much control over her as she was willing to give. A few seconds, a few hours later, he tugged at her waistband and worked her pants down, shifting his grip to include the underwear.

He tried not to tear them.

He didn't always succeed. Thank goodness there was an almost unlimited supply of clothing deep inside the storage rooms.

Not that she was innocent either.

At least half the time she was the aggressor, taking his sleeve and leading him into a side corridor and into the darkness where the supply crates sat. There was an extra threat there – the chance of having an agent come by and find them, report them to Coulson.

He'd accused her once of having exhibitionist tendencies and she'd laughed.

She hadn't denied it.

Her hands were never idle during these brief interludes, flipping each button open on his shirt with short, precise, movements. She confessed once she thought people would talk if he suddenly lost buttons off all his shirts, so she made sure to keep them intact.

The rest of his clothing, however…

She pressed her hand against his groin, hummed into his mouth as his hips thrust against her with an undying hunger. A flick of her wrist and fingers drew down the zipper, never fast enough for his liking.

Then her hand was under the bland fabric and on him and if he'd ever been closer to fainting in his life, he didn't know it. Each and every time she touched him was as close to a spiritual experience as he'd ever get.

Her free hand skimmed his chest, a low growl escaping as she ran her fingers over the ridged muscles. The first time she'd been surprised at his new physique – not that she'd complained before, but his increased strength and tone had its benefits.

Like right now.

He drew both hands down to cup her behind and lifted her with ease, thrilling to the surprised squeak in his ear.

Her arms went around him, balancing herself as he placed her on the edge of the supply crate or the shelf or her back against the wall, depending on the circumstances.

The soft moan as he slipped inside her never got old, the heat pulling him close to the edge in seconds. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to not move and challenge his self-control.

It worked, most of the time. Until she took control and began to move, hands gripping his shoulders for balance as she rose and fell, her loose hair brushing over his face. Her breathing sped up, the low gasps into his neck keeping pace with his racing heart.

It was the same, but somehow different every single time.

The heat curled at the base of his spine, lightning bolts racing up to burn him alive from the inside out, the tension and pressure coiling like a spring under ultimate stress.

The low, rolling growl against his skin was the first sign, her fingernails digging into his skin the second. She'd apologize later, she always did.

He loved it. He loved being marked by her, claimed by the woman who always stood by him, no matter what.

He'd never let her go again.

A keening cry tore the last of his self-control away and he tumbled over the cliff with her, teeth tight on her bare skin as he let go.

They inhaled and exhaled in sync, drew in deep breaths before gathering themselves – rebuttoning shirts, pulling up pants and listening for the best time to come out of the shadows and return to work.

At least until the next time he has to have her, or she him – and they can't wait.

He knows it's as unprofessional as hell, and he doesn't care.

Neither does she.

Because if the world does come to an end, they'll be damned if they pass up any chance to be together.


End file.
